Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Though his work is principally associated with the life and landscape of New England, and though he was a poet of traditional verse forms and metrics who remained steadfastly aloof from the poetic movements and fashions of his time, Frost is anything but a merely regional or minor poet. The author of searching and often dark meditations on universal themes, he is a quintessentially modern poet in his adherence to language as it is actually spoken, in the psychological complexity of his portraits, and in the degree to which his work is infused with layers of ambiguity and irony.
In many ways, adhering to traditional verse forms and metrics, he is much like myself, but you must read about this wonderful poet on the above link to discover lots more about him.
My own poem "A Date With Death" has exactly the same metre line by line, and exactly the same rhyming scheme as Robert Frost's Stopping by the Woods. Do go and see it. It certainly was a challenge. Like Robert Frost, I've bucked the modern trend and write with metre/rhythm and rhyme too as you will clearly see in most of my work.